Sadly, we hear of bombings every day, usually in far away places. Today one terrified many people in Boston. When stories like this come close to home, we begin to relate to the panic and fear that violence creates. Hopefully, we feel more human in our need to connect with people and find the goodness in each other, even in the midst of such terrible acts. This is a story of a bombing that happened in Chiang Mai during World War II. Many years later, my Aunty learned that she was born just before this bombing and that in the confusion, her birth certificate was not recorded until much later. No one could remember her true birthdate. The one she has is just a good guess. Even more significant than losing track of her birthdate, was her family losing track of her, a newborn baby, in the panic on the day of the bombing. This story is how I imagine that day, the blessings to be found in it, and the things we can count on even when the world seems to be falling apart.

My grandfather Motiram settled in Chiang Mai, working first at a watermelon farm and saving his earnings to purchase the beginnings of his small business in textiles. He started very small, and took his bolts of fabric to communities that were not used to commerce and opportunity coming to them. The people of the hill tribes around Chiang Mai became his loyal customers and also his friends. I believe they — Motiram and the hill tribe people — must have shared an understanding of what it meant to be outsiders, immigrants, people in search of community and home.